The Third Floor

Three shoot-on-command revolutionaries are surrounded by the police: “On the street, spring sunlit shadows were turning green, and on the 3rd floor of an old stone house, three people were preparing to die...”

“On the street, spring sunlit shadows were turning green, and on the third floor of an old stone house, three people were preparing to die an unexpected, violent death. Spring did not bother them; on the contrary, they hardly even understood whether they were dreaming or living. And each person’s attention—sharp as pain—was focused on their own weapon and on what was happening below, on the stone, cheerful, sunlit sidewalk.

In ordinary times, they would certainly have been amazed that the whole street—from the station to the market—was plunged into a terrible, suffocating silence, like in a dream... No people, no dogs. Everywhere, windows shut tight in fear, and the facades of houses seemed to listen, like closed, alien faces. Silent trees cast their shadow nets. The dust of the pavement was motionless; the air was asleep.

And they would also notice that the quiet emptiness of the street ends right by that old stone house—ends neatly on both sides, like by a ruler—where on gray sunlit paving stones, white, strict soldier uniforms with red shoulder straps move; and, with a resounding echo from the cheerful, sunlit walls, impatient, sharp rifle shots boom.

The three people didn’t think about this. Now it seemed that it had to be that way, that there was no other way. And they didn’t hear the silence—only the shots. Each shot flew into their ears like a gust of wind and shouted, shouted to the whole world.

So terrifying had never been. Before, when thinking about death—and with a kind of shameless joy, with a light chuckle from a strong, living body, looking around— they used to say: ‘Ah! There won’t be two deaths!’ Or: ‘You can’t escape death!’ Or: ‘A man is mortal.’ They said it and didn’t believe. Now they knew—and this knowledge cost them their lives.”